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Sunday, 22 April 2018

Ravens

I push everything I know off to the side.
For a moment I watch these two predators,
fiddling and flapping, bracing on thick branches; letting go

in the stiffening foliage of my ash tree.
It’s November. They are black as Syrian oil.
I listen to their dialog, caw resonates deep in the gullet.

Like the ruffle of shuffling playing cards, it starts slow,
punctuated by the final fan-slap as the last card folds the deck,
then the quiet roulette of dealer’s hands.

“Caw,” is the end of a sentence.
I do not speak raven, or bird.
But in this aging moment, I wish I did.

I imagine what they might’ve said: Passion, a bargain?
Scolding or rolled eyes over chores - the day’s divvying seed collection,
Fluffing the nest? Who was wrong: who was right?

One to the other, over the fussing,
and how significant or not,
it would all mean, in the end.

I wonder if I could speak raven,
a dialect of Bird, one of thousands,
perhaps, tens or hundreds of thousands.

No. Millions. And if I could begin –
even just begin nothing more for now
– to understand, what new worlds?

© Melinda Rizzo

Syria air strikes: Trump defends claiming 'mission accomplished'

Melinda Rizzo lives, works, cooks, gardens and writes poems in a 200-year-old farmhouse in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, USA. She has been a freelance reporter for more than 20 years.

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